Breathing Ghosts
by sassywinchester
Summary: Kurt Hummel took his own life, and now he walks the halls of McKinley, hating his life more then he ever did breathing. Until a short dark haired boy Sees him. *Sort of trigger-warning, Reviews will be much obliged*
1. A Beginning to Me

There are no spoilers in this story. We know how its going to end. The same way every story ends, death. It's an inevitable process that occurs with a happy ever after, or not so happy after all. When a happy story ends happy, who are we to assume those characters will stay happy? And how narrow-minded can we be to not think of how their story will come to an end. Everyone dies, whether its in the aftermath of the story you've been told or in the future for characters every dedicated reader would create a bond with.

But this story, my story; I suppose you could say. Starts in death and ends in it. Spoiler alert, I Kurt Hummel Died. Wow. It's almost reliving to admit that to someone, in a sick twisted way. I didn't die of old age, or dramatically in a horrendous accident, or slow and painfully with a sickness. I took my own life, I guess in sorts it was slow and painful, but no one wasn't expecting it. Some say those who cause harm to themselves are cowards, I agree. When I first caused harm to myself I felt disappointed in who my parents raised me to be. for not being strong enough to deal with people, my arms were a battlefield of me and my personal demons. But the sickly pale lines that plagued my arms soon moved. To my hips and thighs, thick purple angry scars and thin faint lines that both glared at me against my pasty skin.

But in the end it wasn't the harm that took me away. I took the cowards way out as well as in, one night I was just so done. So tired of having to deal with the way people looked at me and the way I was talked to, and my echoing house were so many other ghosts haunted me for years. I took a bottle of pills and topped myself. It's ironic really, dyeing from pills, when I got to see both my parents that little while longer because of pills.

My mother died when I was 8, she had been sick and frail for so long, I was naïve to not notice how she was slowly fading. I didn't deal well with her leaving me. I felt betrayed, as one should when the only person who ever understood them, leaves. Without a goodbye, off I went to school one morning and I came back with my dad hunched over the sofa, body racking with tears.

That was the first time I felt like I had done something wrong, but the older I got the more apparent it became that I was _always_ doing something wrong. And when my dad had his first heart attack, that should have been the first sign that I couldn't hold those close to me for much longer. The whispered hopes by not-so-friendly-people that my father would get better, was what hurt the most, the fact that people believed filling me with feelings of a future where my dad was happy and well would help. Stung like a bitch that day my teacher walked in looking pallid and mumbling "Kurt, something's happened"

The school dealt well with it I believe, I mean I'm – I was 17 and I managed to convince the social workers I could make my own way with what my dad left me and working at the shop. But walking into school and hearing the gushes of the little gay orphan boy, and how his mummy and daddy had left him all alone and now he had no one, wasn't what set me on my down spiral to final taking my life.I mean sure, it started the dark voices in my head telling me breathing wasn't worth it, but in the end it was the obnoxious Neanderthals that shouted at me in corridors and shoved me into lockers hard enough to bruise and slice open cheeks, and the harshly gritted "That's what you get for being a fag"s said to me in public places just made it occur to me. It was my fault there was always something I could've done, I could've prevented all these things happening I just didn't have the guts.

I cut myself off from everyone, leaving glee club and throwing away my cell were the first steps to a new me. Without the feelings. I changed the way I dress, I recall once being told I looked like I was constantly in "funeral-Phase" with my new found love for black attire. But the rumours slowly moulded into me being a 'Bad-boy'. That's laughable, apparently I'm the only one intelligent enough to just realise it's just so much easier not being me.

Thinking about it now, when everyone stopped their attempts at trying to talk to me might have actually helped. Because now I didn't have to endure the endless "there was nothing you could have done" . People at school noticed my arms, which rooted some of my old friends to just staring at how I didn't care about showing them, if in the summer I wanted to wear short sleeves I think I was entitled to wear whatever I wanted. Others reacted differently, it spurred them to think of new things to say in attempt to speed up my suicidal train wreck.

Some nights I would laugh about how I could easily go and change my first name to freak, because that's all I was ever called lately. My therapist didn't help, more whispers of hope lacking meaning. No one could've helped, no one in the world would have been able to stop me from finally making that choice to stop feeling. i knew no one would blame themselves, because no one was there with me to even begin to fathom how i was feeling. no one was able to get close enough to see how tired i was with having to breathe.

My body wasn't found until after a week, when someone finally noticed my absence and sent the social workers to my house. I watched it all you see, I'm tethered to this world. Well that's what the others say. I'm a ghost. As in no one can see or hear me. almost relaxing being able to walk around and scream, let out my feelings without the disappointing eyes and snarky words. Some would say its the same as when I was alive, always there but never seen. That's where they were wrong you see, I was always seen, always judged.

And it's ironic really that I'm stuck in the godforsaken town that I spent a year attempting to free myself from. I watched my funeral, watched people mourn, and now I watch people forget.

Now I'm dead, I watch all the people that caused my death, _live._


	2. Halls of McKinley

A/N: and so they meet. I'm really bad at updating I'm really sorry. Reviews will be well appreciated.

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I've always hated the halls of McKinley, ever since my first day when Me and Mercedes walked in and I could feel my nose unconsciously up turn at the stench of teenager and fried foods. I am one to admit, I have a very high standard, and the acne ridden teens who currently inhabited the school were not the type of person any sane gay teenage boy who likes fashion should be in close proximity too.

I suppose its even worse now, seeing all these people continue their life as if nothing happened. There's a picture of me hanging in one of the halls, its got some stupid quote underneath it and, when it was first put up, people used to leave little notes of condolence, of course I hardly recognised the few people who visited. At first Some of the Glee club members would come down often, Rachel of course making it all about her and sobbing because 'He died too young', no one cares Rachel Berry, Fuck off.

I spend a lot of time sitting underneath the frame, watch people glance and raise an eyebrow, no one with true interest on their face, aside from the Glee club. It's surprising to see how little you mean to people who made such a fuss over small things like relationships and Show choir competitions..

It gets very tedious some days, I've tried walking to places, go visit the queen in England or lick Robert Downey Jr's face or walk across a red carpet and pretend all of its just for me. But the furthest I can go is right to the borders of Lima and I'm dragged right back to my bedroom, where it all happened. After my first encounter back there I've been avoiding doing anything that would make me go back to there and witness the new family living and sleeping in my home.

I mess around with people sometimes, I realised that if I focus hard enough on an object I can move it, the joys I've had watching the pure shock fill peoples face when jockstraps lift up off benches and slushies float along corridors and splash the bitchy cheerleaders right in the face. Doing stuff like this has obviously caused attention,_ the ghost of McKinley_, some people even say its Me, and tell stories about how I'm craving revenge, but of course those people just get laughed at.

I've met other ghosts around Lima, looking confused or shouting angrily at people, you come across the certain few that are desperately trying to get their 'loved ones' help or attention or just help them deal with the loss.

But after months of playing with people heads it grows tedious. And here I am now watching people walk past in the hallways as I sit on the ground in my usual spot. There's new years now, new people I would've met, like him. The boy with the gelled down hair, he's cute, if not a little short, and he looks lost. I watch him curiously as he looks dazed at the fast speeding traffic in the narrow hallway and then the bells ringing and he's the only one left. He has a crumpled piece of paper in his hands as he curses under his breath.

"Need help?" I joke, chuckling quietly. But he's turned around and I can swear he's looking right at me. Then suddenly his eyes flash up to the picture above my head and something changes in his eyes. He turns back around and curses again.

"You can see me, can't you?" I ask because its obvious he can, I don't care how he can or why, I just missed having someone who actually recognises my existence.

"Damn," he mutters as he turns around and looks back at me with an awkwardly pathetic look. "Yeah, I can see you."

I smile, because I never realised how nice this feeling is, to be spoken to. He looks left and right down the hall, noticing its completely empty and inevitably coming to the conclusion that he can speak freely to me. He moves closer and sits next to me on the ground, he sighs then looks at me again. This time he actually _looks_ at me, I can see by the way his eyes flicker across my face and into my eyes, I'm not even sure how I look but he takes a sharp inhalation of breath and then cocks his head.

"I've never met a ghost so beautiful before." He murmurs, I lean backwards suddenly because – _what? Me? Beautiful?_ "Oh, I'm sorry. It's just- you really are beautiful." he smiles then and I have to stop myself from scoffing because, This boy has the most stunning smile to ever exist.

"Well, thanks I suppose? I don't look as dead as I feel then?" I laugh at that, because that's pretty good for someone who has no sense of humor. He chuckles lowly as well. "So... you can see me." It's more of a statement than a question, I'm 90% sure now he's talking to me.

"Yeah, my Nan calls it my 'gift'. I try to help souls go to the after life." He looks down at his hands and fiddles with his thumbs. I laugh again because how fucking cheesy is that? Shaking my head I ask "You're not serious are you?"

He looks at me with a cocked eyebrow and smirks. Guess he is. "Give me your hand." He says, and I give him my hand. solely because this is really starting to be so crazy that I'm seriously questioning my sanity more and more.

"Give me a few seconds." He closes his eyes and takes a breath. "I'm Blaine"

His hand clenches around mine suddenly "Kurt."


	3. Memories

A/N: I'm actually rather proud of this story, and i really enjoy writing it. Enjoy.

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We sit like this for a few minutes, silent apart from Blaine's breathing and sometimes the sharp breaths. I get a chance to actually look at his face while his eyes are closed and he's concentrated on- _something_. I'm not sure what. He has peculiar eyebrows, almost triangular and his hair is thick and dark and underneath the helmet of hair gel I can see slight curls. His skin is darker than mine, I'm not sure if my current complexion is due to being dead and all or if that is actually my skin tone.

"I can't- I can't see anything, Kurt. I don't know why, but I don't know what you need to move on." Blaine breaks the silence, I don't know how to react, is that what I was supposed to be looking for all these months? Well shit.

"Well, that's OK, isn't it? I've been here for a while already, eternity can't really be that hard can it?" I laughed and tried to joke it off, in all honesty I wasn't that bothered by the idea, as boring as its getting I can still read books and I've always wanted to read 50 shades of Grey in front of people.

My hand was still firmly clasped within Blaine's, and that's when I realised I could _Feel_, I could actually feel his tendons stretch over my palm, and if I moved my fingers a little to Th- yes, I could feel his heartbeat.

I looked up at Blaine's face and saw a single tear fun down his cheek. I hadn't felt anything in years and now suddenly this boy I've been with all of ten minutes was making me hurt, and I liked it.

"Hey, Blaine. I'm fine, it's all right, seriously." I assured him as I swiped at his tears with one finger.

"I saw all of it Kurt, I can normally stop it all from showing, but this time I couldn't." He sucked in more air than I thought was humanly possible then looked me in the eye "I'm so sorry."

I smiled at him sadly, "Yeah isn't everyone."

"You shouldn't have had to go through all that alone. I wish someone would've been there to help you."

"Me too." We looked into each others eyes again. For a teenager who spent years feeling absolutely nothing, the sudden train wreck of emotions I was getting from Blaine was a downright piss take.

"Do you feel it too?" Blaine whispered leaning closer and gripping my hand tighter.

"Yes."

That's when images flooded my mind, of a small boy with a mop of curly black hair riding a bicycle with a slightly taller boy with a head of dark hair also. And suddenly the pictures fading into the same boy, but he's slightly older and this time he's on a beach spread out on a towel with a large grin on his face looking content as sun splays over his chest.

The image crumples and alters again, the boy's still young but you can see the slightness of maturing, and its different from all the other images, he's sad. He's crying and shouting and angry tears are bursting out of his beautiful eyes and I can feel the twinge of pain and resentment.

Then I realises that this boy is Blaine. The man he's shouting at looks scary and I almost feel like crawling into a ball because this man is terrifying me to a whole new level. And there's sick in my throat like the burning hot bile you get, because I can almost feel the strain from shouting this loud and this hard.

Then there's a smack and the image goes black. Images are changing again in a swirl of purple, and it looks like a dance of some kind because the boys are awkwardly dancing with their dates and wearing way to big tuxedos with labels sticking out and sleeves too long. Girls in tight dresses with muffin tops and hips that stand out awkwardly against silk or fake fabrics that'll leave rashes.

And then the curly haired boy is there, and he looks like Blaine now, with his slightly prominent cheekbones and mass of curly hair plastered to his head with gel. There's another boy now with sandy hair and he's murmuring something in Blaine's ear and warmth is spreading through me. I can feel every single rush of electricity that courses through his veins because of this one little whoosh of breath that warms the shell of his ear. The images shift drasticly and I'm wet and cold and something really hard is being pressed against my temple, that's when the fear hits me. So strikingly unexpected that my lungs have difficulty functioning and I'm struggling with breath, then the hard thing is being lifted away and swung at me all over, its uncomfortable and numbing and it hurts so much.

This time when everything changes, I'm back in McKinley, with tears evident on my face. Blaine's looking at me with concerned eyes, his head slightly tilted to the side and his mouth a jar. Then sobs rack my body, the uncontrollable type, when you can feel your lungs get stuck and the lump in your throat is exploding and there's so much pain.

Blaine pulls me into a hug and puts my head by his neck, his heart beat under my palm is surprisingly calming. His fingertips brushing along the back of my neck tingle and all these emotions are just_ too much,_ none of it makes any sense.

"What the fuck was that?" I stutter against the sobs.


End file.
